


Empty Places

by Stokeworth



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl/Carol doesn't really turn up until chapter 3, Gen, and he's an awful racist sexist homophobic ass, pretty much everyone is in this to some degree, tragically this is Merle centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stokeworth/pseuds/Stokeworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a lot of ways the apocalypse didn’t impact the flow of their lives at all. Merle was always leaving and coming back, getting lost and finding his brother again, wrecking things and stepping in at the last possible moment in a vain attempt to prove his worth.  </p>
<p>Or: An attempt to fill in some of the blanks of Merle's zombie apocalypse adventure/disaster.  Which means I'll try not to write about things that actually happened on the show, just scenes that might have happened in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before and After Atlanta

**00.**

In a lot of ways the apocalypse didn’t impact the flow of their lives at all. Merle was always leaving and coming back, getting lost and finding his brother again, wrecking things and stepping in at the last possible moment in a vain attempt to prove his worth.  As far as he could tell, it never worked; all he was good for was surviving at the expense of others.  So maybe, in a way, his leaving was an act of charity, a preemptive measure to prevent Daryl from becoming one of the people he left ruined or dead.

Or, as the new world order dictated: undead.

 

**01.**

They split up to ensure a safe getaway from the gang of thugs Merle had managed to piss off by none too subtly robbing them of precious guns and ammo.  Splitting up was how Merle like to think about it anyway.  He wasn’t abandoning his little brother.  He would never abandon him.  Not really.  But if he ever did, he’d made sure Daryl didn’t rely on him too much.  You couldn’t, he knew, rely on anyone in this damn world but yourself.  That much had been true even before the outbreak.

 

**02.**

Two days after Merle left the town where he’d been laying low, all hell broke loose.  He knew the acid he’d dropped the other day had worn off, and yet here he was watching some biker chick ripping chunks of flesh and stringy muscle from a man’s arm.  The man was screaming bloody murder, reaching out for him to help just as she turned her attention to his exposed throat.  It was amazing, he thought as he turned tail and got the hell out of there, how much the screams sounded like the dying cries of an animal.

 

**03.**

It took him a week to make the three day journey back to the motel where he’d told Daryl to lay low and wait for him.  Damn bloody-mouthed monsters liked to follow his bike for some reason.  On the third day he realized they were attracted to the sound, but kept riding it anyway.  The end of the civilized world certainly wasn’t any reason to throw away two grand. 

The run down, connected shacks that made up the motel were deserted and splattered with blood, but his little brother’s cherished crossbow was missing, so with a put-upon sigh Merle double checked for any forgotten drugs—prescription or otherwise—drank some water from the sink and went looking for higher ground.

 

**04.**

He found his brother on a rooftop in a nearby town; some nice suburban home that Merle thought suited him, especially now that the front walk was covered in blood and the fallen bodies of those things.

“Get those arrows for me, will ya?”  Daryl yelled down as soon as the motorcycle was silenced.

“Get ‘em your damn self,” Merle yelled back, but he plucked them from skulls and eye sockets before the heavy, gasping breath of a walking corpse announced that he wasn’t alone. 

He punched it in the gut as an arrow lodged in the thing’s shoulder, but it kept coming.

“Get outta’ the way, damnit!” Daryl yelled, and Merle was more than happy to oblige.  He shoved it and managed a few steps backwards before another arrow whizzed past hitting the thing right in its forehead.

“Nice save, baby brother,” he pulled the arrows from the motionless body, “now git your ass down here and let me in.”

 

**05.**

“How’d you know where to find me?” Daryl asked as Merle handed him the little baggie containing the shrooms.

“You were right where I left ya.”  Merle shrugged.

“No, I mean before, back when it was just me, and then you n’ me.  I didn’t leave no note or nothin’”. 

Merle laughed and settled back against the side of the RV, letting the hallucinogenic wash over him in the hope that maybe just this once he’d be able to give his brother an honest answer.

“Knew I’d find you up a tree somewhere.” 

Close enough.

 

**06.**

They were on their way to Atlanta with a motley crew of survivors—some old coot in a hat and a pair of sisters, a couple of Mexicans, a short haired almost-lesbian with her pissed-off husband and whiny brat, the big black bastard and his… sister? Wife? Cousin?  Hell if he knew.  Some asshole named Jim, and the good old long arm of the law who came toting his side squeeze and her kid.  Merle knew she wasn’t his wife or girlfriend by the way they acted when they were with the group, not that he cared much, the tired looking brunette didn’t interest him, he was planning on trying his luck with the older of the two sisters. 

They were a mile or two out of the city when they came across the Chinese kid, who told them he’d just gotten out of there by the skin of his teeth, but was willing to offer them the food he’d taken in return for some company and the use of their bathroom—Merle was no stranger to shitting in the woods, but even he would admit that with the Geeks out there he’d rather not get caught between two trees with his pants down. 

 

They were a useless, rag-tag gang of folks relying too heavily on his little brother’s hunting skills.  Always take, take, taking and then asking for more.

“Listen, Daryl, here’s the plan, tomorrow I’m goin’ on a supply run with the Chinese kid, the rug-muncher, and whoever else.  I’ll make sure we get a real good haul and then, once I get back, we rob ‘em blind and get the hell outta’ here.  Whad’ya say?” 

Daryl nodded, just like Merle knew he would.

 

**07.**

The growling brought him down from his high.  Low and guttural it cut through the haze and illusions and left him with nothing but cold, useless reality and a dull throbbing pain in his wrist.  

Get the pliers.  Get the wrench.  Get something, anything.  Once, twice, three times he cast his leather line only to reel it back with nothing to show for it.  They were getting louder, more agitated by the noise he was making.  Pressing against the metal door held shut by a chain that was looking flimsier by the second they struggled to get to him so they could—he knew there was no time to think about all that.

Finally the metal clasp of the belt caught, but only on the saw.

Still, he reeled it in and set dull teeth to the shiny metal of the cuff. 

 

He wasted thirty seconds up on a rooftop with a fate worse than death snarling at his back trying to cut through the wrong thing.

He didn’t waste the next two minutes.

 

**08.**

The first time he hotwired a truck with one hand, it went off without a hitch.  Well, aside from the blinding pain and the stench of burned flesh.  But he managed it, stump held aloft, body tense, and fully aware that if a Geek came at him now he was done. 

He should have been done on that rooftop.

 

As the truck crackled to life he found that he wasn’t surprised.  Of course it had.  The bad ones always made it.  Dark spots decorated his vision as Merle sat up, pulled the door shut and drove away with clenched teeth. 

After a few miles he pulled over, curled up in the seat and fell heavy and hard into exhaustion.  The last thought that crossed his mind before everything went black was the hope that some of the good ones made it too, because his brother had never been anything else.

 

**09.**

Every step echoed through the deserted hallway, a screaming beacon for Geeks or looters to reveal themselves and finish him off.  When he finally stumbled into a medical supply closet he at least had the presence of mind to shut the door behind him, so when he passed out as he wrapped the charred, bloody stump that had once been his hand he didn’t have to worry about waking up dead.

He awoke to the sound of something snuffling and clawing at the door.  Teeth clenched, he felt around for something—anything—that he could use as a weapon.

There really was no rest for the wicked.

 

**10.**

The leather straps chafed his arm, but it was still better than leaving his mangled stump exposed to the elements.  The makeshift replacement he’d fashioned had other perks too, he’d discovered, such as being a stable base for the knife he’d strapped to it.   It hurt like hell, but it worked.

He took it off when he slept though, after almost stabbing himself in the face one night when he was low on drugs and the nightmares started to seep back into his unconscious mind. 

 

**11.**

One night after time lost all meaning, he found another use for the metal covering his mangled wrist.  It was a small camp, no more than three adults, only one of whom was standing watch. 

It was as easy as lying; she didn’t even know he was there until the cold metal collided with her head, knocking her unconscious so he could grab the two packs they’d been stupid enough to leave out.  It would be a shame if the Geeks got her while she was down, but his philosophy had always been ‘ _better them than me_ ’.

 

**12.**

Something was wrong with the stump at the end of his wrist.  It had long since stopped bleeding, but something oozing and wretched smelling was leaking out of newly formed cracks in his scarred skin.  An infection maybe, or some unintentional damage caused by the now dented metal covering it.  Whatever it was it made him woozier than he’d ever felt—even worse than that morning when his gonorrhea symptoms had colluded with a bad hangover.  And to make matters worse he’d torn a chunk out of his thigh earlier squeezing through a hole in a rusted fence to get half a packet of saltines.  The bleeding had since slowed, but Merle wondered if he might just be running out of blood.

 

He saw his little brother standing next to his truck in the distance, the frown on his face visible to Merle without him really being able to see it.  He growled and stumbled towards the illusion, feet dragging, so he could smack his brother upside the head for having the audacity to look so broken.

“Never gonna’ get anywhere in that condition,” Daryl said with disdain.

“The hell d’ you know?” He spat back.

“You got nowhere to run off to.” 

“I’ll figure somethin’ out.” 

“It was real stupid a’ you to keep using it like that.”  Daryl took a step towards him and nodded towards his lack of a hand.

“Shut the fuck up, it ain’t like I had much of a choice.”

“Maybe not about the first part, but you had a choice about what came after.” 

“No,” Merle told him, “I didn’t.”

“You got a choice about what you’re gonna’ do next though.” Daryl said.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “guess I do.”

“If you do it you’re a pussy.”  It wasn’t a taunt, just a sad fact from a man who couldn’t really be in front of him right now. 

“The hell d’ you know?”  Merle spat, fingers clenched.

Daryl didn’t flinch.

“The hell do you know about anything?!”  He said again as he closed the distance between them, drawing his fist up and leaving his protected right wrist at his side.

The figment vanished as he sagged against the passenger door of the truck, rage seeping out of him as his strength dissolved just as a Geek came lumbering out of the nearby bushes with blood on its mouth. 

 

**13.**

The truck door creaked as it opened. 

“Shit.  I think we got a breather here.”

Rough hands shook him.

His mind registered the distant sound of a rifle being cocked.

A hand closed over his shoulder.

He swung.

Right hand, phantom fingers clenched.

He didn’t miss.

Neither did the man who swung the butt of a rifle at his temple.


	2. Woodbury

**14.**

The truck door creaked as it opened. 

“Shit.  I think we got a breather here.”

Rough hands shook him.

His mind registered the distant sound of a rifle being cocked.

A hand closed over his shoulder.

He swung.

Right hand, phantom fingers clenched.

He didn’t miss.

Neither did the man who swung the butt of a rifle at his temple.

 

**15.**

The nurse took a step back as he opened his eyes and struggled to sit up, a feat made more difficult by the restraints that held his left arm to the bed.  He reached over with his (oddly) untethered right arm only to discover—for perhaps the hundredth time since he cut it off—that his hand was missing.

Merle stared at the bandage-wrapped stump, letting the pieces fall into place as they always did, wondering where his makeshift replacement was and wishing he had more of whatever they were pumping into him to take the rest of the edge off. 

“Fuck,” he slumped back against the bed.

“Hey nurse-” he began, but she was gone.  “Oh well,” he half-sang, “didn’t want to talk to that bitch anyway.  Don’t need any…”

 

When he woke back up the nurse was still gone, and a man now stood at the foot of his bed.  He wasn’t particularly dangerous looking—combed brown hair, a clean jacket, and a faint frown on his face—but something in the man’s eyes told Merle he ought to keep his mouth shut and let the other guy talk first for once. 

“Were you bit?”  The man finally asked.

“What?  Fuck no.”  He tried to sit up again, but the restraints held him down.

“So what happened?”  The man gestured to his hand, or lack thereof.

“Oh, you know how it goes.  Some cunt-faced fuckers cuffed me to a rooftop and left me for the Geeks ‘cause a something I said.”  He licked his lips and tried to sound nonchalant, “so I did what I had t’ do.” 

“We call them Biters,” the man told him idly, “and that…is impressive.” 

Something in Merle recognized the situation he was in.  An animal caught in a trap as the hunter tried to decide whether he was worth more alive or dead. 

 

**16.**

“Here”, The Governor tossed him his new and improved makeshift prosthetic, “sorry we held onto it for so long, one of our doctors wanted to add a little padding around the inside, then another wanted to build it up a bit on the outside, and the whole thing turned into a bit of a project.”

“That’s a fine bit a’ work,” Merle whistled, “but, if you don’t mind my askin’, where’s my knife?”

“We’ve got a rule about that here, no weapons inside the walls.  You can have it back if you decide to leave.”  The Governor said with a mild smile.

“ _If_ I decide t’ leave?  Now, why would anyone ever want to leave a place like this?” He said, calm, airy, and with what his brother used to call ‘stupid-charm’. 

“Some people don’t want to stay,” the Governor shrugged, “but most of them find that Woodbury is a safe haven, the last bastion of humanity.”

“I bet they do.”  Merle smiled.  “I bet they do.”

 

**17.**

“So where were you,” the Governor began, “before you were here?”  They were standing at the wall, Merle on watch and the head honcho just dropping by for inspection.

“I was near Atlanta for a while.  With some people.  My brother, and the assholes responsible for this.”  He gestured to his mutilated right arm. 

“How many?”

“Oh there were more than a dozen of us.  There was this old coot with a RV, so we stuck pretty close to him, didn’t want t’ be shittin’ in the woods with Biters around.  Most of ‘em were little bitches though.  Useless.”  Merle spat to emphasize his point.

“And your brother…?” The Governor asked.

“He was a good kid,” Merle said, “too good, honestly.  Spent half my life trying to toughen him up and he still turned out too damn nice.”

“Was?”

“Figure he’s got to be dead now.  World bein’ what it is an’ all.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said before turning to have a word with one of the other people on duty.

Merle watched him go repeating the words to himself.  Daryl had to be dead.  There was no way he’d survived, not with those people holding him down and certainly not on his own.  World being what it was and all.

 

**18.**

“Want to show you something,” the Governor said.  They were out on a run, just him, the man in charge, and some Mexican-looking guy with a name Merle couldn’t be bothered to pronounce. 

“Recently, I found out that Moralez here has been sneaking over the wall at night, which is obviously unacceptable.”  The Mexican-looking guy’s hand shot towards his holster, but the Governor already had his gun drawn.  The bullet went clean through the poor bastard’s heart before his fingers had even touched his weapon.

“No offence boss,” Merle drawled, “but I’ve seen plenty a’ that in my day.”

“Just wait.”

It took two minutes before the should-be corpse started to stir; its eyes opened once more, breath rattling through its chest. 

“The hell—?  He ain’t been bit.” 

“No.  It seems we’re all already infected.  Doomed to come back no matter when or where we die.”  The Governor sighed a practiced sigh.

“It’s important that you know this,” he continued, “because I’m going to need you to take care of Williams tomorrow.  He’s been sneaking out with Moralez, I’m worried they might be meeting someone out there, so I need you to find out who it is and then dispose of him.” 

“Got it, Governor,” Merle said before taking a step forward to meet what was left of Moralez with the business end of his knife. 

 

**19.**

The library at Woodbury was housed in the hollowed out remains of what had once been a bar.  Now filled with salvaged shelves and bookcases, it held a relatively sizable collection of literature.  The former town library had been a few blocks outside the East wall, and they were still in the process of picking through it during runs. It was a good cover story, going on a run for books, and no one ever questioned them when they came back with other things as well: a gun found in a recently turned Biter’s belt, some clothing that seemed surprisingly free of blood, and, once, even some medicine that had been buried in the rubble

It was all a bunch of horse shit of course, the gun had come from a lone man they’d found wandering and had killed.  The clothing they took from a small group of survivors who had been all too willing to follow them into a building where the sound of gunfire would be muffled.  The medicine had come from a car, engine still warm, and the Governor had told Merle to slash all four tires so whoever had just left it wouldn’t be able to get any closer to their town. 

They always made sure to include a quick trip through the trashed library as well, to pick up a few books that would hold their ruse in place. 

On one such run Merle picked up a coverless copy of _A Clockwork Orange_ that had been splattered with blood but was otherwise intact and tucked it into his jacket.  No real reason for it, just a theft from the community pool of resources for its own sake. 

But god, it felt good.

And that was probably all that mattered.

 

**20.**

He was reading the stolen book when he made the decision to break into the Governor’s house and have a drink.  Alcohol had been in short supply since the end of the world, but he knew the man in charge had a secret stash at his place that he would occasionally break out for special occasions.

He didn’t know why he stuck around so long, maybe he wanted to confirm his suspicions about the Governor, maybe the whiskey was just good enough to hold him there, or maybe he was looking for an out.  Regardless, he was still sitting at the table drinking when he heard a key in the lock. 

“Gentlemen,” he said with a smile to the Governor and his scrawny tag-along, Mitch, or Martin, or something, Merle had never been good at remembering names.  To the Governor’s credit, he didn’t look the least bit surprised, he just asked four-eyes-what’s-his-face to leave, shut the door, and sat down across from Merle. 

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?” 

“You can thank your friend here,” Merle held up the half-drained bottle of whiskey.

The Governor didn’t reply, he just reached forward—eyes unflinching—and took the bottle before standing back up and re-securing it in the cabinet where it had been hidden. 

“Come with me,” he said, “I want to show you something.” 

 

“That’s a hell of a collection, boss.”  Merle whistled as he walked along the wall of severed heads. 

The Governor nodded and rambled off some obviously prepared speech about wanting to look at the faces of the dead.  It was a nice speech, Merle thought, almost convincing.  The threat was clear though, cross him and you’d end up in a fish tank with the rest of them. 

As they moved to leave Merle cast one last, long glance around the room looking for an open window or some other way to explain the unmistakable sound of labored breathing that signaled a Biter was nearby.

 

**21.**

The dark-skinned mute had eyed him suspiciously as he adjusted Andrea’s blindfold, but only until Martinez wrapped a thick band of cloth around her eyes as well. 

“Just helping out an old friend,” he’d mumbled at her as he led her to the SUV they were using as transport.  Behind him two men propped Andrea up between them. 

“Don’t get weird back there gentlemen,” he called with a snicker, “You ain’t her type.” 

 

**22.**

The first time, he conceded; he chose Woodbury over a chance to find his brother.  He’d had the map, coordinates neatly plotted in Andrea’s handwriting, and the terrible, faint glow of hope burning a hole in his chest.  But still, he’d conceded to the Governor’s sweet words and underlying threat. 

Merle knew it was the wrong call, but he swallowed it whole and decided to wait.  The boss-man had a point, he supposed, Daryl hadn’t been on the farm for eight months, they needed him here. 

Maybe it was due to years of practice, but that night he slept just fine.

 

**23.**

Andrea stayed, but her dark skinned partner decided to hit the road.  It was an unacceptable turn of events, but one they needed to allow if Andrea was to remain in Woodbury.  And damn, did the Governor want that girl to stay.  Not that it was any of Merle’s business—although it kind of was, she was _his_ old friend after all—but the whole thing seemed a bit elaborate.  And elaborate plans, he knew, had a tendency to backfire.

So once the dust settled and he had a chance to wash the blood from his face and hands—Biter blood, Cartulio’s blood, maybe even a little of Michonne’s blood—Merle was feeling pretty pleased with himself.  It _had_ been a complicated plan after all.  And she _was_ as good as dead.  Probably. 

So what if he hadn’t put the bullet in her brain himself?  He’d done one better, bringing Glenn and his little girlfriend back to Woodbury.  They had deserved it too.  Merle had given them a chance, he would have gone with them—and, alright, he wouldn’t have let _everything_ that had happened in Atlanta go, but once he’d punched the negro in the face and said his peace to Officer Friendly he would have been willing to live and let live.

But all was not so fortuitous, and they’d gone and pissed him off, so unfortunately things were going to have to happen the hard way.  And alright (alright), maybe he’d wanted a little blood after all.  A pound of flesh for his pound of flesh. 

 

**24.**

“The way I see it, what we need t’ do is go in and bloody Bo-Peep up a little.  I know the Chinese kid, he’s got guts an’ he sure as hell won’t spill ‘em over his own blood and broken bones, but hers…” Merle waved his hand and waited for the Governor’s go-ahead.

“No.  It would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face,” he shook his head, “you go in there and bust up your old friend all you want, if he doesn’t crack within a few hours let me know and _I’ll_ handle the girl.”  The Governor smiled and Merle almost opened his mouth to protest.  Almost.

 

**25.**

Merle had practiced.  Ever since Andrea mentioned that his brother had been alive eight months ago he’d been practicing.  Lying had always been the easiest thing in the world for him, but he’d never had to sell a lie to a man craftier than Satan himself before.

He’d planned it as a speech.  But the Governor forced it out of him in a single word.  One word to convince the devil he was on his side.

 

“I need to know where your loyalties lie.”

“ _Here._ ” 

He almost believed it himself.

 

**26.**

It was like being gutted.  Only Daryl was the deer, shaking as furious screams of ‘ _kill them_ ’ rang down from the crowd.  His little brother had never been one for crowds, even on a good day, and this sure as hell wasn’t a good day.  They were doomed, but Merle still had a few cards left to play.

A few more lies to tell.

A little more time to kill.

A few more blows to land.

Between the lies and the not-quite-pulled punches he felt something break.

But wouldn’t it be worth it if they could both make it out of this alive?

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 will mostly deal with the ball of moral ambiguity that is Woodberry.


End file.
